Like in Ramallah

In the dark, the guiltless, moonless night

They made their way along the walls of the modest house, along the stuccoed walls

Soundless, sightless

On they crept, swiftly, stopping to listen for restlessness, recognition, awareness, life

Soon to be dawn, soon to be day, they hurried on

Soon, blood, glistening blood, molten blood, then darkening blood, stiffening blood, streaking blood

As in Ramallah

In Ramallah, the young man raised his hands, palms up, his fingers splayed

On his hands, his scarlet hands, death

In Ramallah, in Ramallah, one man’s blood painted another man’s upraised hands

Blood!

Blood coursing through the body

To the heart, to the brain

Bringing warmth

The child fell back on his bed

A single thin mattress

He fell

And his blood pulsed onto the mattress

They slit the neck of the baby, the dewy folds offered no resistance

They killed the parents.

Young parents

And when they were done, they fled into the darkness, softly, softly, the ancient stones recoiling in horror under their feet

And when they returned to their children, their parents, their neighbors, the blood of the family was on their hands

Garments

Faces

Souls

Like in Ramallah

LikeĀ inĀ Ramallah was previously published on jewishmag.com.

About the Author
Elaine Rosenberg Miller writes fiction and non-fiction. Her work has appeared in numerous print publications and online sites, domestically and abroad, including JUDISCHE RUNDSCHAU, THE BANGALORE REVIEW, THE FORWARD, THE HUFFINGTON POST and THE JEWISH PRESS. Her book. FISHING IN THE INTERCOASTAL AND OTHER SHORT STORIES will be published by Adelaide Books in 2019.
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